“Hereward,” cried Torfrida, “you shall not go on! If you go, I shall be taken. And if I am taken, I shall be burned. And I cannot burn,--I cannot! I shall go mad with terror before I come to the stake. I cannot go stript to my smock before those Frenchmen. I cannot be roasted piecemeal! Hereward, take me away! Take me away! or kill me, now and here!” He paused. He had never seen Torfrida thus overcome. “Let us flee! The stars are against us. God is against us! Let us hide,--escape abroad: beg our bread, go on pilgrimage to Jerusalem together,--for together it must be always: but take me away!” “We will go back to the boats, men,” said Hereward. But they did not go. They stood there, irresolute, looking towards Ely. The sky was pitchy dark. The minster roofs, lying northeast, were utterly invisible against the blackness. “We may at least save some who escape out,” said Hereward. “March on quickly to the left, under the hill to the plough-field.” They did so. “Lie down, men. There are the French, close on our right. Down among the bushes.” And they heard the heavy tramp of men within a quarter of a mile. “Cover the mare’s eyes, and hold her mouth, lest she neigh,” said Winter. Hereward and Torfrida lay side by side upon the heath. She was shivering with cold and horror. He laid his cloak over her; put his arm round her. “Your stars did not foretell you this, Torfrida.” He spoke not bitterly, but in utter sadness. She burst into an agony of weeping. “My stars at least foretold me nothing but woe, since first I saw your face.” “Why did you marry me, then?” asked he, half angrily. “Because I loved you. Because I love you still.” “Then you do not regret?” “Never, never, never! I am quite happy,--quite happy. Why not?” A low murmur from the men made them look up. They were near enough to the town to hear,--only too much. They heard the tramp of men, shouts and yells. Then the shrill cries of women. All dull and muffled the sounds came to them through the still night; and they lay there spell-bound, as in a nightmare, as men assisting at some horrible tragedy, which they had no power to prevent. Then there was a glare, and a wisp of smoke against the black sky, and then a house began burning brightly, and then another. “This is the Frenchman’s faith!” And all the while, as the sack raged in the town below, the minster stood above, dark, silent, and safe. The church had provided for herself, by sacrificing the children beneath her fostering shadow. They waited nearly an hour: but no fugitives came out. “Come, men,” said Hereward, wearily, “we may as well to the boats.” And so they went, walking on like men in a dream, as yet too stunned to realize to themselves the hopeless horror of their situation. Only Hereward and Torfrida saw it all, looking back on the splendid past,--the splendid hopes for the future: glory, honor, an earldom, a free Danish England,--and this was all that was left!